


Who's Gonna Be the Next Barista? Vote Now on Your Phones!

by lllee



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Anyway hope people like it, But it still took a long time to write bc exams, Competitive Barista-ing, Extreme latte foam art, Gen, Grif tries to be lazy (and fails), Sarge is up to his usual antics, So that's an oof I guess, This piece is too short for any more creative tags, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 12:55:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18366461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lllee/pseuds/lllee
Summary: Grif hates his job cleaning at Sarge's Coffee. He envies his somewhat snobby co-worker Simmons, the head barista. Grif insists that he'd be a better barista than Simmons any day, but Simmons begs to differ. To settle who is the best barista, they turn to their boss, Sarge...





	Who's Gonna Be the Next Barista? Vote Now on Your Phones!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cinip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinip/gifts).



> Hey guys! It seems like every time I go to write one of these tiny pieces, it takes at least a month, which is annoying, but at least I'm still writing, right? Once again, this piece is for my dear friend Cinip, who is about the only person who can get me to write anything these days. Maybe over the summer I'll have more time... But for now, here's hoping you enjoy this little thing.

“Grif! Get in here!”

Grif sighed. He had been hiding in the breakroom, trying to sneak in a quick nap before his supervisor Sarge noticed him. Unfortunately for him, Sarge had a keener nose than a warthog in a mud bath.

“What is it?” Grif groaned.

Sarge pointed to a large bucket and mop. “The floor is dirtier than my great-uncle Keith’s hair. Get mopping!”

Grif’s stomach twisted at that description. Why did he have to do all the dirty work? Grabbing the mop and entering the main area of the small coffee shop he loathed to call his place of employment, he spotted his coworker Simmons manning the counter. What Grif wouldn’t give to be a barista, free from nasty tasks and taxing labor. Then again…

“Sarge, sir!” Simmons called their boss into the room. “There’s been a temporary lull in customers, so I used the time to scrub the counters, polish the equipment, and reorganize the flavor additives in alphabetical order.”

Sarge entered, pausing a second to glance around at the space. The dim, homey space was nearly devoid of customers, save for a slender blond man sitting in the back corner.

“Nice work, Simmons! Youngsters like you are exactly what the coffee shop industry needs nowadays. Grif, you should learn a thing or two from him.”

Grif pouted. “How come you always praise Simmons so much? If I was a barista, I would be just as good as him, if not better!”

“Oh, please. Your simple mind cannot understand the intricate complexities of being a proper barista,” Simmons scoffed.

“Oh yeah? Wanna bet?”

“Sure, I’ll bet that you’re a horrible barista.”

“Fine, then we’ll have a barista-off. If I win, you have to give up the barista position to me. If you win, I’ll keep mopping like a pansy.”

“You’re on!”

Five minutes later, Grif stood behind the counter, squeezed in a too-small apron. Though he and Simmons were about the same height, Grif was stocky, while Simmons was scrawnier than a streetlight. After Grif won this competition, he would need to tell Sarge to order him a better apron. He cracked his knuckles. Simmons flinched.

“Alright, losers,” said Sarge, holding a Nerf gun like a starting pistol. “Here are the rules. You have five minutes to make me the best coffee the world has ever seen. Got it?”

Simmons hesitated. “Wait, sir. What sort of coffee do you like? Are you more of a strong espresso type, or a sweetened latte-”

“If you’re the best barista, you can figure it out,” Sarge responded. “Ready? Go!” He shot a nerf pellet at the ceiling.

It was at this moment that Grif came to a sickening realization: he knew absolutely nothing about being a barista. Sure, he’d make his own coffee in the morning, but he never had any formal training. Surely it couldn’t be that hard though. After all, Simmons was able to do it. With a new sense of determination, Grif set to work.

What type of coffee to make? Sarge seemed like the type to drink black coffee so raw that coffee grinds would still be left in it. Perfect. Grif set up a new coffee pot, taking care not to put in a filter. He poured in raw beans from a blend specially grown from a rare variety of coffee plant in South America, grown to be extra bitter. He dropped the whole beans into the top of the coffee machine and set it to run.

While he waited for the coffee to brew, Grif observed Simmons. Simmons took a completely opposite approach, rushing around so fast his cheeks flushed redder than his hair.

“Vanilla extract… heavy cream… caramel syrup…” Simmons struggled to keep all the ingredients in his arms.

Grif leaned against the counter and smirked. Simmons was making a fool of himself, and Grif barely had to do any work! His victory was assured.

“Four minutes left!” shouted Sarge.

Simmons went to another coffee maker and brewed a different blend: a lighter, more fragrant mixture. After only a minute, he took out the coffee that had been brewed so far. Grif continued to lean against the counter.

“Three minutes!”

Simmons frowned in front of his supplies, eyebrows scrunched together in concentration. With a sense of precision and dexterity even Grif had to admire, he shook containers and poured liquids in the most graceful of arcs. Grif drummed his fingers on the counter and hummed a Gorillaz song.

“Two minutes!”

Simmons continued to pour liquids into the cup at an astonishing rate. Grif daydreamed about what he was going to have for his second lunch.

“One minute!”

Simmons added a frothy layer of foam to the top of the latte. With a toothpick, he drew a design into the foam. Grif took the black coffee out of the coffee pot and poured it into a paper cup, spilling a bit onto the counter.

“Three, two, one! Time’s up, numbskulls!” Sarge pulled out an airhorn from his pants pocket and blew it right in front of the two baristas.

“Ahhh! What was that for?” asked Simmons.

“How did that even fit in your pocket?” Grif said.

“I like airhorns!” Sarge lovingly stroked the airhorn before putting it back in his inexplicably large pocket. “Are you losers going to give me the coffee or not?”

“Absolutely, sir.” Simmons stepped forward before Grif had time to react. “I made this latte inspired by the person I care the most about in the world, the person who has inspired me more than any other, the person I look to as a model for proper character and discipline, the person who has been almost a father figure to me.” He brought forth his latte. As Grif peered inside, he spotted a very rough sketch of an old, balding man with a bristly mustache and round face. He instantly realized it was supposed to be Sarge. What a suck-up.

Sarge took the latte, his face lighting up at the design. “Simmons! This is the most handsome-looking latte I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you, sir!” Simmons beamed, his blue eyes brightening behind his glasses.

“Unfortunately, it’s got way too much sugar. Do you want to give me diabetes?”

Simmons’ face fell. “Sorry, sir! I’ll make sure to do better in the future.”

“Not so fast. It’s my turn now.” Grif shoved his cup in Sarge’s face. “I think I can make up for Simmons’ failure.”

“Excuse me?” Simmons shouted.

Sarge took the coffee and took a swig. He coughed and sputtered, his face turning red. “Augh! Blech! This is disgusting.”

Grif stared in disbelief. “I thought you would love bitter coffee!”

“There’s coffee grounds in this! Don’t you know how to use a filter, boy?”

“Wait, Grif, you put coffee grounds in the coffee? And you call yourself a barista?” Simmons smirked.

“Yeah? Well, your coffee has enough sugar to feed a small country!”

“The sugar gives it flavor!”

“It doesn’t even taste like coffee if you do that!”

“Quiet, numbskulls!” Sarge yelled.

“Sorry, sir!” 

“So who won?” Grif asked.

“Hang on a second. I haven’t decided yet.”

Just then, the blond guy in the back stood up. “Mind if I participate?”

“Who are you?” Simmons asked.

“The name’s Franklin Delano Donut, but you can call me Donut!”

“Considering neither of these losers know how to make a cup of coffee, sure. Why not?” 

“What?!” Simmons and Grif sputtered simultaneously.

Pulling out a flowery pink apron from his backpack, Donut hopped over the counter. He tied the apron using a series of elaborate knots. Turning to the back, he opened a container of instant coffee and grabbed a coffee filter. He put the coffee and filter into the machine and brewed it. Then he pulled it out, poured it into a cup, and gave it to Sarge.

Sarge took the cup and drank it. His eyes lit up. “Now here’s a man who knows how to make a cup of coffee!” After downing the cup, he stepped closer to Donut. “Want to be a barista?”

“I’ve always wanted to be a barista!”

“Perfect. You’re hired!”

As Grif and Simmons began to protest, Sarge left and returned with an armful of cleaning supplies. He shoved the supplies into their arms. “Get going, numbskulls!”

And thus, both Grif and Simmons were relegated to the back room of Sarge’s Coffee, where they were stuck scrubbing floors and squabbling for the rest of their time at work.


End file.
